Casualties
by Miskcat
Summary: As Roy and Riza work together in East City, sublimating their deeper feelings for a higher good, they must beware of how this sublimation affects others around them.
1. Intimate Client

Intimate Client

_Intimate Client_

She's been entertaining him for several months now.

He's a considerate client: in fact, her best client. He visits her about once a week, depending on what's happening in his life and how much stress he's under. And actually, she hardly regards him as a client any more, because although she screens her customers carefully, and has a cordial and professional relationship with each one, he stands out among all the other men.

For one thing, he behaves toward her more as a lover than as a customer.

Though he always pays, of course. Much more than her stated price, in fact, however much she protests. She sometimes wonders if this is because he feels guilty for visiting her in the first place, and yet he never makes her feel as though he looks down on her or her profession. Quite the opposite.

Most of her clients are men slipping away for a quick dalliance during the day, so they can return home and be perfect family men in the evening. She quite likes it that way, since she enjoys having her evenings to herself. She likes to read or, now and then, paint one of the canvasses she keeps ready in the upstairs den with the wide windows. She sells the paintings through a nearby gallery, and they supplement her income rather nicely.

But no matter how immersed she is in a book, or how she's concentrating on a canvas, her heart lifts in breathless anticipation whenever she hears the distinctive tapping on her door, and opens it to find him leaning against the jamb, one hand clutching a bottle of wine, the other stuffed into his jacket pocket or the pocket of his slacks. He greets her with that casual, sidelong smile, his dark, exotic eyes warm beneath the unruly fringe of his jet black hair.

Sometimes he sweeps her away to a private dining room, where they share their mutual love of the finest cuisine, and they talk long into the night, never noticing the passing of time, and never quite making it back to her house and to bed. But most times, she takes her best wine glasses from the antique cabinet with the glass doors, and as he lifts her up into his arms, she holds the glasses splayed in one hand over his shoulder, cradling the bottle to her breast while he carries her upstairs to the bedroom. Her real bedroom, rather than the one where she entertains all the others.

After their initial lovemaking (fierce or leisurely, depending on his mood), he uncorks the wine and they retrieve the bed's many deep, jewel-coloured cushions from where they were tossed in haste onto the floor. Propping these against the curving, polished wooden headboard, the two of them sit up in bed, talking. He pulls her into the circle of one arm and they discuss poetry, or her latest painting, or history, or the theatre.

She's not sure which sort of evening she prefers, actually – going out, or staying in. Because he's the one man among all her clients with whom sex doesn't feel like a job. She loves the gentle flow of his hands along her body, the feel of his lips, the weight of him upon and inside her. When she turns him over and straddles him in her turn, her long black hair falling forward and enclosing the two of them like a veil of dark silk, she runs her hands up his firm, muscled chest and smiles as he raises his arms above his head on the pillow, arching back, gasping and losing himself in the pleasure she gives him.

And far into the night, without fail, he pulls her into his arms, entwining their limbs together, and in the depths of sleep he whispers a name: _Riza_.


	2. Growing Friend

Growing Friend

_Growing Friend_

He's been courting her for several months now.

She was reluctant at first to respond to his attempts at conversation, until it became clear that since they were both regulars in the same out-of-the-way café, and were going to encounter each other almost every day, it would be a little ridiculous to ignore each other. It became even more ridiculous when they realized that they were going to run into each other while performing their daily duties as well; he is chief Aide to the mayor of East City, and she is second in command to the military colonel currently assigned to this region.

Now they meet every morning at the café, sharing a coffee and some relaxing conversation before departing for their respective offices.

She usually carries a book, to read later at lunchtime. This was in fact how he'd noticed her in the beginning, when he saw the interesting title of the book sitting on her table, and asked her about it. Now they talk about what they're reading, what they're thinking, what's necessary to keep a society secure and its citizens happy…they range very widely during their early morning chats.

They also sometimes speak of the concert they attended the evening before, or the poetry reading they attended. Because in the last few weeks, at last he has managed to persuade her to go out with him once in a while.

This morning he watches her as she cradles a cup of coffee between her hands, gazing out the café window at the city street beginning to wake up for the day. Though the rising sunlight is diffused through the green and white striped awning over the wide window, her golden hair still glows, amber eyes alert and observant as they scrutinize the people walking down the sidewalk or starting to open the shops across the street.

He smiles fondly, leaning back in his chair, an arm resting on the pristine white tablecloth as his fingers trace the curve of his cup handle. He wonders if she has yet guessed what else he hopes to persuade her to do. Naturally he will continue to be the perfect gentleman and friend, not pressuring her into anything that makes her uncomfortable. He hasn't even been inside her apartment yet; nor has she been inside his. But already, as he gazes at her across the table, admiring the bright hair now pulled up and held behind her head with an efficient clip – remembering how it looked last night, flowing down her shoulders and back, gleaming in the soft light of the theatre chandeliers -- he harbours the hope that one day he can persuade her to leave the military and marry him.

There are some obstacles to his hope, of course, though he hasn't explored deeply enough to discover them yet. But today he doesn't worry about them. His voice soft and intimate underneath the general conversational hum in the café, he jokes about how they should be careful in their dating, in case their two "second in command" functions come into conflict.

She smiles down into her coffee cup, the smile perhaps thinner than usual, and murmurs something about "fraternization rules." And he can't prevent the sudden, uneasy thought that she's not really thinking about him at all.


	3. Enchanted Wonder

Enchanted Wonder

_Enchanted Wonder_

She remembers the early days a few months ago, when she was just beginning to know him. By then she had guessed he was one of the military men in town, but she hadn't told him what she'd deduced, nor had she asked any questions. (As far as she is concerned, a client's privacy is sacrosanct, or she shouldn't be in her particular line of work.) But there were have always been just some things about him that suggest the military: the way he squares his shoulders when he stands, the way his eyes quickly scan every corner of any room he enters. Even his strict punctuality, at least when they're together.

But the night her guess was confirmed, perhaps a month after his visits had begun, he had arrived as usual, after giving her a quick call to make sure she was free. He seemed unusually cheerful, and swept her, laughing, up the stairs to the bedroom. He had tossed his jacket negligently over the back of a chair, then thrown himself backwards onto the bed, smiling as she unbuttoned his shirt and bared his chest. She had sat on him, leaning down to tease a nipple with her tongue, before taking a deep breath, inhaling the warm scent of him as she always did.

This time, though, he smelled different. She paused, casting him a questioning glance. "Smoke…?" she murmured.

His smile had faded slightly, but then a spark had kindled in his eyes. "Yes," he had answered, the smile more narrow than before. More…perilous. That had been the only word she'd been able to think of.

"Just tell me you haven't been in danger," she had whispered, hands pressed flat on his chest, as though to reassure herself that his heartbeat was as calm and level as always.

"Far from it. In fact – let me show you." He had bucked his hips a little, so she would lift herself up onto her knees, enough for him to reach a hand into his pants pocket. He'd drawn out a white glove, and as he'd pulled it onto his hand, she'd seen a strange red design embossed on the back of it, some sort of circle with lines crossing it and one or two figures around the edges.

His gaze had wandered above her head as he frowned in thought. Then he had raised his gloved hand, snapped his fingers –

– and a ring of tiny white flames had appeared in the air above them, each one dancing its own private dance, yet all of them moving slowly around the room together in a bright, flaming ballet circling the bed.

She had gazed up at the dazzling moving ring, watching in wonder for several enchanted moments, lips parted, pulse racing. The circling flames cast a silvery, otherworldly aura over the bed, as though setting it apart from the mundane world, creating a wholly other, dreamlike place where only the two of them existed.

And then she had finally realized who he was.

Lowering her wide eyes to meet his intent gaze, she'd had an instant to recognize the flash of grief sparking in his own eyes, before he'd closed them altogether and turned his face away. Between her knees, his body was taut with fresh tension.

He murmured wearily, the heavy words forcing themselves from his lips, "Unlike others…you have no reason to fear me. But if…if you want me to leave, I'll…"

She set a soft hand in the middle of his chest. She could feel his heart thudding, hard. "Why would I want you to leave?" she had asked.

His eyes had snapped open. "You don't?" The hope on his face had surprised her.

Her fingers moved slightly over his heart. "Just tell me it's safe. That you're not in danger when you do this."

He let his breath out very slowly, and already she could feel him starting to relax beneath her. "Thank you," he whispered. Then his gaze had wandered back up to the ring of flames, their diamond reflections glittering in his eyes. "And danger…I don't know," he'd answered, so quietly she could barely hear him. "I'm known for my skill and control, but I still can't help feeling that the flames…may kill me one day." His lips quirked into a faint, crooked smile. "There would be some justice in that, I guess. But I…," his breath caught. "I love them. I love creating fire. I can't help myself. Even after all the…terrible things…"

She had set the fingers of her other hand to his lips, to silence him as she heard the sadness creeping back into his voice. Now that she knew who he was, she understood its source. "Just be careful," she'd murmured. "My dear…be careful."

With a small wave of his hand, the lines on his glove briefly glowing, he'd snuffed out the flames, drawing her with him back to the real world. Pulling the glove off, he'd dropped it over the side of the bed, his gaze fixed on hers, warily, as though uncertain what he should do next. As though her new knowledge may have changed something between them.

She had smiled gently and leaned over him, her lips brushing over his. She could still create a separate world for him, to ease the pain of his memories and bring him release and pleasure. With a small, painful sound in his throat, he lifted his mouth hungrily to meet hers.


	4. Matched Pair

Matched Pair

_Matched Pair_

He finds her at the firing range; despite his lack of military standing, he has enough civil authority that he can wheedle the security officer to allow him in. After donning a set of protective headphones, he strolls along the back of the range, behind the individual shooting booths, until he finds her at the farthest end in the last booth. The only other person using the range, one of her fellow lieutenants, the stocky one, is just packing up. They nod coolly as they pass each other.

He stands slightly to the side, arms folded as he leans against the grey concrete wall, unnoticed as he observes. She is reloading her pistol as he arrives, and now lifts and aims so swiftly he can hardly follow the movement. He barely has time to absorb her stern frown of concentration before six shots explode in quick succession. He senses the concussions even from a few feet away. As she pauses, he glances down the range toward the target, then goes very still as he sees six tiny holes, all clustered within an inch of each other, in the target's head.

Before he can turn back toward her, another six shots detonate, and he watches in disbelief as the heart of the target literally disintegrates in a shower of shredded paper. She moves her hands slightly, firing four more shots, each of the target's limbs receiving a bullet before she lowers the gun, nodding briskly to herself.

She must finally have sensed his presence out of the corner of an eye, for she darts a quick glance over, then stops and turns in surprise as she recognizes him. He realizes he's still staring, wide-eyed, stunned at the display of swift prowess he's just observed. For a moment they simply look at each other.

Then she cocks an eyebrow and points the barrel upward in front of her mouth, blowing across the end of it as though blowing smoke away. He bursts out laughing as she slips on the safety and holsters the gun, pulling off her headphones and joining him along the wall.

"So you managed to sneak in somehow," she remarks. "Maybe I should speak to the sergeant, about letting in the riffraff."

He chuckles. "I'd say I was sorry, except I'm not. So perhaps you'll have to punish me. I see that you're fully capable of it, and more."

Their eyes meet, his blue ones challenging, her amber ones still sparkling with the adrenaline of firing practice. "Perhaps I just might," she answers with a narrow little smile. He can barely breathe, at the mere thought.

He manages to find the breath for his dinner invitation, though, and she gladly accepts. He suggests a place they've gone to a couple of times before, and she agrees to meet him there.

The restaurant specializes in eastern food, and the décor is designed to match. They are escorted into an alcove draped with colourful silk curtains, where they sit on satin cushions on the floor to eat from ornately decorated dishes served on a low table. The meal is redolent with exotic spices, meats and sauces served on beds of rice, with spiced fruits, tart chutneys, and strong wines as accompaniment.

This evening she has changed into a simple sleeveless navy dress, adorned with a small diamond pendant she says was a gift from her grandfather. Again she has loosened her hair, pinning it on either side to keep it from falling into her face, but otherwise allowing it to flow over her shoulders and down her back. As always, he must resist the desire to run his fingers through the golden strands.

All through the meal, the breathless challenge of their moments at the firing range seem to underlie every glance, every word they speak. He knows instinctively that despite everything, she is still not ready to take the step he wishes for, so he dampens his desire. Yet it thrums in his veins, flickers between them like electricity, flavours their conversation with promise. _Some day_, he thinks. _Some day soon_.

The warm evening air envelopes them as they stroll arm in arm through the streets afterward, progressing from pool of light to pool of light under the streetlamps. He walks her home, as always, but takes a longer route than usual to prolong his enjoyment of her company. When he turns left rather than right at a familiar intersection, she casts him a droll, knowing glance, but willingly follows his lead.

She walks confidently at his side, head held high as an equal. There's nothing more exciting, he decides, than a woman who walks as though the world could belong to her if she but lifted a finger. Of course…if the finger didn't work, this woman is awfully adept with a gun…

But there's far, far more to her than that. From the beginning he has been entertained by her lively wit, intrigued by her keen intelligence. While she has many chances to engage her mind in strategic thought in her military role, he knows she misses the opportunity to let her intelligence roam freely into other realms. Do any of her fellow officers, he wonders, know that she has a comprehensive knowledge of the great philosophers and the different schools of thought associated with them? Do those men know that she has studied the lives and music theory of the great composers?

He, too, has studied these things. And he's watched her blossom, over the months, as he's re-engaged her mind with philosophy, ethics, and art. He knows she feels as fulfilled as he does, having the chance to discuss them again, letting them enrich and guide her life.

_Some day_, he thinks again. _Some day soon_.

As they stop at the door to her apartment, she digs in her clutch purse for her keys, and remarks, "This is too interesting to end just yet. Why don't you come in for one more drink before we call it a night?"

He subdues a sudden burst of joy – it's just for a drink and nothing more, he reminds himself – but this is the first time she has been so casually comfortable that she's invited him in, so naturally, hardly thinking about it. He follows her into the apartment, feeling as though he is entering hallowed space.

The living room is surprisingly spartan, reflecting her external military world more than her rich inner world. The furnishings are simple, everything tidy, everything in its place. In fact, pride of place appears to be given to a large gun cabinet, the size of an armoire, on the wall opposite the small fireplace. For a moment his heart sinks at the thought that her military side may yet triumph over all the other things she loves. But in the short passage between the living room and the kitchen he finds a bookcase, full of exactly the kind of books they both love: history, philosophy, classical literature… And he is encouraged.

She produces a bottle of wine and pours them each a glass. Then they sit at the kitchen table, informally and comfortably, and talk as the evening grows late. With her hair literally down, she is so much more relaxed than when he sees her going about her duties during the day. She is funny, she's intelligent, she's kind and considerate, she is everything he has ever dreamed of in a woman.

And when at last, reluctantly, he rises from the table and moves to the front door to go home, he can no longer entirely suppress the desire that's been singing through his nerves all evening. He puts his hands on her shoulders and leans forward to kiss her lush, full lips. She leans against him, hands splayed on his chest, and responds with surprising passion.

But when she pulls back from the kiss, her smile is tinged with regret. "I wish I could give you what you're hoping for," she says softly. "I consider you a very good friend. But I'm…just not ready for anything more. Not yet."

"I know," he whispers. "I'm not pushing. But look at this," he adds, drawing her toward a long mirror hanging in the hallway by the closet. He sets her before the mirror and stands behind her, hands on her shoulders. The lamps in the living room behind them glint off his blond hair, as bright as her own. "You see?" he murmurs. "We go very nicely together. We're a matched set in so many important ways."

She smiles at the fancy. "We are, aren't we?" Then adds with raised eyebrow, amber eyes sparkling, "Except your eyes are blue. So you're not quite perfect."

He laughs at her dry little jab. Emboldened by that, or perhaps by the wine, or else the fact that they are finally speaking of the things closest to his heart, he tightens his hands on her shoulders and tells her, voice trembling, "I know I said I'm not pushing, but…I have a secret dream. I dream that one day you may care enough for me that you will leave the military to be with me."

She turns in his grasp and lifts her face to kiss him again, this time on the cheek. "Goodnight," she brethes. "It's been a wonderful evening. Thank you."

It can only be his suspense about their future, he decides, that makes him imagine he sees a hint of sadness in her eyes as she closes the door behind him.


	5. Impulsive Betrayal

Impulsive Betrayal

_Impulsive Betrayal_

She recognizes his voice before she sees him. Leaving the grocer's after a mid-afternoon trip to buy some necessities, she hears him speaking on the sidewalk outside, just past the carts of produce along the front of the shop.

She has never heard him sound upset before, but she would recognize that voice whatever its tone. It thrills through her like fire in her blood, and although she is usually careful never to acknowledge any client she encounters outside her business (to protect both herself and them), this time she can't help but turn her head and slow her steps.

Under the shadow of the awning, he stands in uniform, the first time she's ever seen him that way. For an instant, her heart flutters as though she's a schoolgirl. She was right – all this time, she was right, about the way he carried himself. Shoulders squared, feet firmly planted, the lines of the dark blue uniform draw the eyes irresistibly upward to his face. Incongruous, that unruly hair she always wants to sweep out of his eyes, yet there's an air of command about him that she can't imagine anyone defying.

Except, apparently, the blond female officer who seems to have aroused his temper, who faces him without the slightest hint of intimidation in her face. Another male officer, equally blond, stands at her elbow, obviously not a participant in the argument but watching with wide-eyed interest, an unlit cigarette clamped forgotten between his teeth.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye, I don't appreciate being contradicted like this," her friend growls, fists clenched at his sides, brows drawn together in a forbidding frown. "I'm getting sick of these constant obstacles."

"I'm sorry, sir," the woman replies coolly, obviously not sorry at all, "but you're making a huge mistake."

"Just let me be the judge of that and do as I tell y – "

"You're clearly not fit to judge this objectively," the woman counters, patiently, as though his rising anger is insignificant, as though she doesn't fear the clenching of his jaw. "With these two, you never see clearly. These are not seasoned soldiers we're talking about, sir, these are young boys."

"Boys who have been through almost as much action as you or I have ever – "

It was a mistake to pause and listen for so long, for suddenly he has seen her, voice cutting off abruptly. Their eyes meet, and she wants to melt onto the sidewalk as his gaze pierces her. If she doesn't turn away and leave – now – she'll endanger his privacy, give herself away – run to him and fling herself into his arms –

"Hello." His voice has lowered, softened, taking on the quiet tone of his visits. Taking on, unbelievably, the intimate tone of the bedroom.

Already the heads of the other two officers swivel to look. Her face impassive to hide her thudding heart, she nods, as to a passing acquaintance, before turning in the other direction. But before she can take two steps, he has caught her, a hand on her elbow, drawing her around a cart of apples, toward his two companions.

"Now, don't be shy and run away," he smiles slyly. "Let me introduce you before you leave."

"_What are you doing?"_ she hisses so that only he can hear, but he ignores her distress and she can only turn back without resistance. Better that, than provoking even worse questions by trying to jerk free. She has no idea what can have moved him to do this.

He pulls her away from the murmured bustle of the sidewalk into the circle of conversation and, releasing her arm at last, smiles at his subordinates. "What a happy coincidence, to meet my…friend…on the street like this," he says quietly.

She darts a glance upward at the unfamiliar hardness in his voice, but he isn't even looking at her. His glare radiates defiance at the blond woman, as powerfully as though he were shouting.

Time to extricate herself from the awkward situation he's created. He should know better than this. He has no right to make a spectacle of her, no matter how much he pays. "Excuse me, but I should probably go – " she begins, but he cuts her off as though she hasn't even spoken. And to her horror, slips a possessive arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him.

"She and I are very good friends, aren't we, sweetheart?" At last he bends his gaze upon her, the anger and malice in his smile stabbing her heart as he croons, "We get together all the time – at least once a week – regular as clockwork. Don't we?"

Now in earnest she attempts to tug herself free, to escape this strange nightmare, this hateful man she doesn't know. But as she pulls against his arm she catches sight of the blond woman's face, utterly unmoving, eyes stunned, her face a stark white as though she has turned into a statue.

And at last, in a burst of insight, she knows who 'Riza' is.

"Get your hands _off_ me!" she cries, finally ducking under his outstretched arm, staggering a step backward.

"Excuse me, I need to get back to the office," says the blond woman, turning on her heel and stalking down the sidewalk without a backward glance, her back stiff.

He sees her go, his face already changing, shattering, breath indrawn heavily as clarity breaks over him. He takes a step to follow the retreating woman but whirls back, looking at _her_ now, caught in helpless indecision, eyes wide, panicked.

She backs away, her shopping bag bumping against a leg, her own anger kindled at last. "Don't touch me!" she cries. "Just _don't ever touch me again!_" And she, too, turns and stalks away, heart pounding in fury and pain. She will not let him see her run.

A loud crash jerks her head back involuntarily in alarm. The other male officer has slammed him against the outer wall of the store, tipping over a small cart, sending oranges rolling all over the sidewalk and into the street. "Let them go!" he growls, teeth clenched around the cigarette. "Just let them go, Roy, you _fucking_ bastard!"

Rounding the corner of the shop, at last she begins to run, as though she can possibly flee the betrayal and humiliation. Flying through the streets, pushing roughly past shoppers and pedestrians, one hand gripping her bag of produce with mindless tenacity, she is hardly aware of the other hand swiping across her eyes again and again, dashing away the tears.


	6. Desperate Solace

Desperate Solace

_Desperate Solace_

He hesitates at her door, hand lifted in mid-motion, almost afraid to knock. Despite her phone call, despite the fact that she's invited him here (_"Please come over – I really need you"_), he is uneasy. After such an unusual late afternoon call, he doesn't know what to expect. He's so used to her calm self-assurance that the wavering voice on the line has disconcerted him, hinting that she's not in full control. He can't imagine what he'll see when she opens the door.

Yet that, in the end, is why he made his excuses to the mayor and has come over right away. And it's why he finally suppresses his unease and knocks. If something has upset her that much, he must be there to help. This is what love is about. And he can't prevent an inner thrill at the thought that she has called him, said she needed him. Knows he will come when she asks.

When she opens the door, her pale face and red, almost bruised eyes stare at and through him as he steps into her apartment. Closing the door and quickly setting his bottle of wine on the small hallway table, he draws her into his arms. "What has happened?" he inquires softly.

"Please don't ask," she murmurs against his suit jacket, sinking into his embrace, trembling. "It doesn't matter. I just – I just need you right now."

"I'm here," he whispers against her dishevelled hair, still confined in its workday clip. "I'm not going anywhere."

She hasn't changed since she left the office, and the stern lines of her uniform contrast starkly with her distraction as she lifts her head and looks around. She draws him further in, through the living room into the kitchen, where a bowl of soup steams on the table. An unused spoon reveals that she hasn't yet touched it.

"You look like you really need this," he says. "Why don't you have your soup and we can talk? Or if you don't want to talk, I'll just keep you company. Whatever you need me to do, I'll do."

She nods and vaguely reaches for the chair, then watches silently as he pulls it out for her. In the brighter light of the kitchen, the flush on her cheeks shows harsh against the pallor of her skin. Her inward gaze worries at some thought he can't detect. She reminds him, alarmingly, of a hurt animal nursing a wound.

She fumbles at the buttons on her uniform jacket, pulling it open and sliding it off, her white blouse impeccable beneath. As she fans the jacket open to hang on the back of the chair, her hands stop, gaze finally sharpening into focus as she stares at it. When at last she looks up, there's a flame in her eyes that he's never seen before, a new intensity in her voice as she says, "I don't want the soup."

"What can I get for you, then – " he begins.

"All I want," she interrupts, stepping toward him, "is you." And reaches for him, both hands pulling his head down, her mouth fervently claiming his. Her fingers clutching his hair, she kisses him until he can barely breathe, curling a leg around one of his, to hold him close against her.

When at last he manages to lift his head against the pull of her hands, he gasps, "Are – are you sure about this? You said you weren't ready – "

"I'm ready now," she almost growls, her hands slipping inside his suit jacket and beginning to push it back, off his shoulders. It drops unheeded to the floor as she tugs his shirt out of his slacks with unexpected vehemence and quickly works at the buttons on his shirt.

His body responds of its own accord, swept upon the rising tide of her passion. In a daze of desire, he watches his hands pull the clip free from the back of her head and guide the cascading gold hair down to her shoulders. His hands continue down, one cupping a breast, the other shaking as it undoes the buttons on her blouse.

By the time she tugs him down the hallway to the bedroom, shedding pieces of clothing as she goes, he can no more stop what's coming than he could stop a sandstorm in the eastern desert. She yanks off the rest of his clothes with his willing aid, pulling him onto the bed, drawing him down, mouth seeking, body urgent, welcoming –

– full and lush and passionate, fanning his desire into demanding need, wrapping herself around him, filling his senses, all he has ever wanted, all he has ever dreamed of –

He loses track of the hours as they explore each other, rarely speaking, communicating only with searching mouths and gentle hands. All doubt, all his uncertainty has been obliterated in the rush of her ardour. Far into the night, they fall asleep in each other's arms, limbs entwined, her hair trailing softly across his chest like a covering of silk.

Many hours later, he senses the warmth of sunlight streaming across the bed from the window, and smiles as he opens his eyes. Lying on his side he watches her sleep, gently stroking her hair back from her face. The rhythm of her breathing changes and she reaches up and covers his hand with hers, smiling in her turn. Taking a deep breath, she stretches luxuriously and slowly opens her eyes to look into his face.

And he has just an instant to catch the shock and anguish in those wide, light-filled, amber eyes before she sits bolt upright and turns away, burying her face in her hands.


	7. Broken Contrition

Broken Contrition

_Broken Contrition _

She is not surprised by the knocking at her door, late in the evening of that same day. Nor does it surprise her that the tapping is tentative and hesitant. Despite the differences, and the lack of the usual pattern of knocks, she knows who it is.

He is still wearing his uniform, which he has never done before when coming to her house. In the small circle of light from the lamp beside the door, he stands straight and stiff, face averted, gripping the porch rail with one firm, white-knuckled hand. It is hard to reconcile this rigid, almost formal posture with the way his jacket hangs open, revealing the white shirt rumpled and half unbuttoned underneath it.

Hardly has she taken this in when, upon a sharply indrawn breath, she recognizes the extent to which he has fortified himself before daring to come here. The miasma of alcohol floats heavily about him like a dark aura.

As she leans against the door jamb, a pang of alarm intrudes into the unbroken stream of rage in which she has bathed since the afternoon. But she ignores it.

"What do you want?" she demands, keeping her voice crisp and businesslike. She wonders if he yet realizes that he will never enter her house again.

She waits a long time for his answer. Leaves rustle softly as an evening breeze whispers along the hedge by the walk, and the aroma of newly cut grass wafts past. At last he releases the rail and straightens up, lifting his head and forcing himself to look her in the face. His weary eyes flicker briefly as he meets her cold, implacable gaze. But he speaks calmly, voice controlled and even. "I don't expect you ever to forgive me for what I've done. I was unspeakably cruel to treat you as I did. But for what it can possibly be worth – I'm sorry."

She regards him in silence, and he watches her in his turn, waiting patiently for whatever response she gives him. A good little soldier, she thinks contemptuously, awaiting his punishment stoically, like a man.

She can't prevent a tinge of the contempt from creeping into her voice. "And that's supposed to make things better, is it? Say you're sorry and it's done, and you can go off and congratulate yourself that you've set everything back in order?"

A muscle in his jaw tightens, but he shakes his head calmly. "No. I'm well aware that nothing I say can 'make it better'. But I treated you abominably, and it would be criminal of me not to tell you how sorry I am. As I said, I don't expect you to forgive me."

Again she studies his face, set into its lines of forced calm. She is certain he means what he's saying, yet already he has set himself at a distance, maintaining the formality, behaving as though he's reporting to some official in his army. As though the real man safely watches the apology from another room, guarding his emotional core so it can't truly be touched.

Well. She knows how to breach that wall. He gave her the weapon himself, months ago.

She favours him with a thin, mirthless smile. "In all the months I've known you," she tells him softly, "I could never believe you were the kind of man who could do what they said you did in Ishbal. But I believe it now."

He gasps sharply, anguish exploding into his eyes just before he jerks his head aside, eyes closing, the blood draining from his face. Her weapon has struck true, like an arrow through the heart. He swallows, hard, fighting against the pain, hand tightly gripping the rail again, the other clenched at his side. She watches it tremble, unable to tear her eyes away.

To hurt this man so, this man for whom she has cared so deeply…

She ignores the answering pain in her own heart, hardening her resolve. She will not, _will not_ retract the words.

But again he pulls himself out of the pain, lifting his head, suppressing everything once more, smoothing away the emotion with the air of a calm professional. "You're right." He speaks the damning words as though acknowledging a field report, even as he agrees with her accusation. "That's the kind of man I am. Now you know."

Damn him. She will _not_ allow him to hide this way! She will make him hurt, and hurt, if it's the last thing she does. She's far from finished yet; her quiver is still full. "Does _she_ know what kind of man you are?" she throws the words at him. "Riza? Your lover?"

His eyes widen, the reply blurting too quickly. "She's not my – "

"Don't lie to me," she retorts, drawing her bow a second time, to keep him off balance, to deal him an even harsher blow. "Every night you and I were together, you called me by her name in your sleep."

"Oh god." He stares at her, mouth open, before bowing his head, his shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry," he says, voice quavering. At last the wall has been breached, crumbling swiftly before her eyes. "I didn't know. God, I'm so sorry."

She presses her advantage. "It was so convenient, wasn't it, that I came along when I did, to give you a weapon against her? Do you treat her like this all the time? Does she like it rough? Or are you just that sort of bastard and I never noticed?"

"Riza doesn't…we're not…" Again he straightens up, slowly, as though pushing against a heavy weight. "We're not together. We never will be. It's impossible."

_Never?_ She really should have guessed. Because that explains everything. Absolutely everything. She can't help but laugh, bitterly, burying her face in her hands. "Oh, you damn fool," she mutters. "No wonder…no wonder…" Again she glares at him. "So you get even by throwing _me_ at her. Was this even the first time, or am I just one in a long line? You really are a vengeful bastard, aren't you?"

He is almost visibly bruising under her onslaught, the dark smudges of his eyes stark as wounds on his face. "No," he whispers. "It's not like that – "He lifts helpless hands toward her before remembering himself and the barrier that now stands between them. Forcing his hands back to his sides, he shakes his head. "I never wanted to hurt you, I swear. I loved being with you. I loved every minute."

"But not enough." She can't prevent the tears, after everything he's done, despite the anger and humiliation. Despite everything, it comes down to this. "You didn't care enough," she whispers, "to pass up the chance to hurt us both today." Her voice rises, "And it will happen again, won't it, if you don't go to her and tell her how you feel – "

"_But I can't!"_ It is a cry of agony from the depths of his soul. He backs against the porch rail, pressing a clenched fist over his mouth as though to keep such a sound from bursting forth again. For a long moment his gaze turns inward as he battles himself for control, and she watches in unexpected suspense, hand to her throat, not understanding why he faces this battle, not knowing why she is suddenly afraid of the outcome.

So many sides to this man – and this is another. Never has she seen someone wrestle with their feelings this way. With sinking heart she watches as, yet again, he suppresses the anguish, taking his emotions in an iron grip, and slowly, very slowly, establishes the dominion of his will over them. He swallows down the pain and almost visibly slows his heartbeat, taking long, deliberate, deep breaths to calm himself. She watches his face close, watches him wrench himself loose from the distress, burying it once more beneath the professional mask.

For the first time, she guesses just how he must have survived life since the massacres in Ishbal. And the startling thought fleets through her mind: that somehow he is inflicting far more damage on himself at this moment than on either her or his untouchable lover.

At long last he lifts his head again, and although he looks directly at her, she can no longer read him; his eyes have been shuttered, against her, against his deepest feelings – against everything.

Yet he speaks gently, the same voice she's come to know in the tender moments of all their nights together. "What you suggest isn't possible, and I'm not even free to explain the reasons. I'm sorry. But I promise you this: I will never hurt another woman this way again. It was criminal, that I dragged you into the mess I live in. It will never happen again. I don't know if that's any comfort to you or not." He hesitates, then adds softly, "And you may not believe this, but I cared – I _care_ for you, very deeply. I'll never forgive myself for what I've done to you."

"I – Roy – "

He stands at attention and bends in a low, formal bow. "The best thing you can do for yourself," he whispers, "is forget you ever knew me. Good-bye."

And without another word he vanishes from the porch, disappearing swiftly into the darkness of the night, blue uniform and black hair blending seamlessly into the shadows. She hears his receding footsteps along the front walk until at last they, too, blend into the sounds of the city at night.

He is gone.

For a long, terrible moment she fights with the yearning – to call him back, to catch him up and throw her arms around him, shower him with forgiveness, draw him back into her house, her bed – her heart.

She pulls in from the doorway and shuts the door, leaning back against it, sinking to the floor and burying her face in her hands. She will quit this business, she thinks bleakly to herself, live from the sale of her paintings, and leave the city. She can no longer stay in this place where he has destroyed her peace, her heart, perhaps her life. As the evening grinds on into night, she sits in the stifling darkness, thinking only one thought, over and over again: she must go, and quickly, as far from this beloved man as she possibly can go.

At long last she struggles to her feet and faces the empty house, unable to dispel the image of his face from her mind, trudging through the ashes toward the bedroom.


	8. Eternal Bond

Eternal Bond

_Eternal Bond_

He walks her to work, the air fresh and cool as the sun casts its clean early light on the gradually awakening streets. They will not stop at the café today – or any other day. She has already told him she will not visit it again, to make it easier. But nothing will ease this for him. Nothing.

The fulfillment of his dream has become a nightmare of inescapable loss. What he'd thought was a beginning was in fact the ending, the end of everything.

He had lain in bed for a long time, absorbing what he'd seen on her face, recognizing what it meant, not wanting to believe it. But at last addressing the soft question to her shivering back, "Who is he?" he had whispered.

She had lifted her head, stiffening, her hair a tangled waterfall of gold down her shoulders. He yearned to touch it, but didn't dare. She did not look back, saying only, "What do you mean?"

Perhaps, had come the anguished thought, if he didn't ask the question then it would not be true. But he had forced himself to ask, though he could hardly bear it. "Who is the man you wanted to see when you opened your eyes just now?"

A long silence, and then, "You're mistaken. There's no one. It's just…I realized what I've done to you, how unfair I've been. I've made a terrible mistake. I'm very sorry."

Not long after, forestalling his questions, she had left the room to shower in preparation for work. He wondered if she expected him to be gone when she came out of the bathroom, but she hadn't seemed surprised to find him dressed and sitting at the kitchen table. He had made coffee for her, even though the rich aroma, tinged with an undertone of bitterness, now made him nauseous.

From that moment until this, he has tried to find answers, but receives nothing from her but apologies for how badly she has treated him. He reasons with her as they walk the tree-lined streets, trying to break through her wall of weary reserve, but he can find no opening. "You said before that you weren't ready," he urges. "We simply forgot to be cautious, and moved too quickly. We'll just go more slowly, that's all."

"No," she shakes her head, her fair hair once again rolled and confined by a clip at the back. She is all business now, taking refuge in the formality of her military uniform. Yet her voice softens, "I should never even have entertained the possibility, because it can't – I can't – "She abandons her explanation, adding quietly, shoulders slumping, "Whatever the reasons, I misled you. What I did last night should never have happened. And I can't let this go on. I'm very sorry."

He cannot believe that his life, his hopes, have altered so drastically in just a few hours. He tries yet again, demanding suddenly, "What happened yesterday? What did your lover do, that hurt you so badly?"

"He's not my – " She cuts herself off, biting her lip as her cheeks colour, as though she realizes how many things she's admitted with those three words.

He is right, then. But he'd known that the moment she awakened.

She lowers her voice. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I've done this to you. It's unconscionable. Believe me – it's best that I let you go, and keep you from getting any more involved than you are."

"I already _am_ involved," he insists. "Last night – "

"Last night was a mistake," she says again, shaking her head. "I was cruel to do that to you. I'll never forgive myself."

"Then it meant nothing to you? Nothing?" He still can't make himself accept that this is happening.

"Of course it meant something, or I'd never – but I've allowed you to believe we might have a future. I should never have done that to you. I'm so sorry."

Rounding a corner to draw near the main entrance of East City military headquarters, he entertains for one last instant the thought that he might still change what is happening, still persuade her to give him a chance. But as she jerks to a halt beside him, all remaining colour draining from her already pale face, he understands in a flash of terrible insight that he has never had a chance for a future with her. Never.

The uniformed officer approaching from the other direction has halted abruptly, one foot on the lowest of the steps leading into the building as he waits, still as stone, watching them.

Her superior officer, the Flame Alchemist.

Ashen face utterly expressionless, the man's bleak, shadowed eyes take everything in, encompassing the two of them together. He knows – somehow he has guessed – what has happened between them. As the officer's eyes meet his, the breath chokes off in his throat, as for one long, irrational moment he waits, heart pounding, for the man to thrust a hand into a pocket and produce one of his famous gloves.

There has been no external sign, no change in expression – yet somehow he recognizes that his life has never been in more danger than at this moment.

But at last the dark eyes shift, coming to rest instead on the woman's face. Still the colonel has not moved.

Her wide eyes return the gaze. Her inner self, her very soul open to the man, nothing hidden, visible and vulnerable in a way she has never, ever been with him. Her face radiates a profound grief he has never before seen there, and in response, the other man's tension seems to dissipate, eyes reflecting back the same grief. Not a word is spoken, yet the communication is palpable, deeper than words, a profound communion, soul to soul. There is far, far more expressed between them than merely their mutual pain. The officer's lips twitch upward almost imperceptibly, wearily, in the beginning of what might eventually become a wry smile.

And finally he understands.

He is shut out, irrelevant, can never hope to intrude upon that powerful, subliminal rapport that binds these two so deeply.

Yet he has no choice but to try. "Riza. This man." His voice the faintest rasping whisper, but he knows by the slight tilting of her head that she hears him. She retains at least that much sanity, still. He wants to gasp, as though there is not enough air in all the world. "Of all men – the destroyer of Ishbal. This murderer." He will not allow himself to weep, though he wants to fall pleading at her feet. "How can this possibly be? Do you really hate yourself so much?"

She turns her gentle gaze upon his face, eyes grieving and compassionate at once. "There is no hatred," she murmurs. "There is only – "

"Don't!" he blurts sharply. "I don't want to hear it. I can't stand it."

"I know. I'm sorry." She lifts a hand as though to touch his arm, then draws it back as he flinches. Instead she tells him softly, "There is truly nothing you can do to change this. It will be best if you go now. And forget you ever knew me."

She turns from him, leaves him standing alone, and walks toward her lover. He is already virtually forgotten; that is abundantly clear. Stumbling blindly away, hardly seeing where he is going, he knows only that he must escape as quickly as he can.

As he staggers toward the corner of the military building, he hears the man's voice behind him, low and intimate, vibrating with barely suppressed emotion. "I don't know why you don't just blow my brains out and get it over with."

He can hear a smile in her voice, quiet and equally intimate, as she replies, "I probably would, if you weren't already pointing your own gun at your head."

One final glimpse, through tears, before he turns the corner. His darling, his beautiful one – standing face to face with the monster, the killer, the man who has hurt her – smiling, both of them smiling. Dark, brooding eyes locked with eyes full of light, sharing again that yearning, wordless communion more profound than any mere bodily union. Until the man turns crisply and begins walking up the stairs toward the entrance, head high. She follows behind, watching her superior officer's back, lips curved in a faint smile.

He flees the sight, rounding the corner and pressing himself against the wall of the building, closing his eyes against the stinging of tears. He will hurry to the municipal office and hand in his resignation to the Mayor – effective immediately. It will destroy his career, but he will not remain in this job a moment longer, lest he encounter the two of them again. He simply could not bear that.

He will leave this place, he decides in despair – his job, this city, everything. He will go somewhere, anywhere – Liore, perhaps, where he can throw himself into the work of trying to help calm the troubles. Yes, that's where he'll go, and if it puts him in danger he doesn't care. Taking a bullet could not possibly hurt this badly.

He pushes himself away from the wall, crossing the street through a break in the growing traffic. Wiping his eyes with the back of a hand, he leaves her behind forever, trudging slowly toward his fate.


End file.
